The night wind caressed his cheeks as he stood inches from the foaming
surf. There was a wild, poignant loneliness about the shore that night. The
rough waves told of a coming storm, yet the sky was clear, the stars
bright.
The silence was complete. He heard nothing but the waves. It was a silence strangely absent of the sounds of little creatures scurrying over the broken shells and birds humming sleepily to one another. Even the breeze made no sound as it swept over the damp, hard-packed sand.
He half believed that he wasn't standing there. The sea and wind certainly took no notice of him. He lifted his foot and looked at the sand underneath. He had left no imprints. A familiar ache was starting up deep in his soul, and he felt a desperate need to prove to himself that he existed.
Squatting he drew his long finger through the wet sand. He left marks this time. He sat back on his heels to survey his handiwork. The sight of his name written in curving script assuaged his rising panic. He still was.
He gave a sigh of relief and lay back looking at the stars. They had changed over time. He could no longer look at them and read the stories of old. He knew they must tell new stories of this new world, but he had never learned the art of interpreting their meaning.
Some nights he would make up stories of his own. He'd imagine himself up there, fighting and winning battles, and people on the earth looking up and admiring him. But tonight that stars held no charm for him. Writing his name had made him remember something – a little golden head bent studiously over a bit of parchment, a smooth white forehead scrunched in concentration, a rosebud mouth pursed thoughtfully.
Éowyn had been preparing a poultice for an abscess on a broodmare's leg, and Elwyna had been too much under foot. The little girl followed her mother's every step doggedly until at last Éowyn had set the little girl at a table outside with pen and parchment and instructions to write a letter to her uncle Éomer.
She was sitting there, frowning at her paper when the elf glided onto the terrace. She glanced up and waved him over distractedly.
"I must get this letter off," she said, sticking out her little chin. When he stepped closer to see it she crossed her chubby arms over the letter and frowned, "Please," she said primly, "This is a private correspondence." He nodded solemnly and sat nearby on a low wall. Clearing his throat he asked, "How may I be of assistance to her ladyship?"
She sighed as she lay her plumy pen across the paper. "I have so many things to do just now. I'm afraid I've neglected my dear Uncle most dreadfully. I was just writing to him of the new gown I'm having made." She turned back to her writing.
His eyes were sparkling with fun, but he forced himself to keep a sober face. He wouldn't offend the precocious tot's dignity. "I'm sure Éomer will be pleased to hear from his favorite niece," he said, vying for her favor.
The prim little miss saw through his attempt and sniffed, "I'm his only niece."
"That's true." He admitted, determined to treat her like an adult if he could do so without laughing.
Again she gave a dramatic sigh, "If I could just scribble this off quickly – I'm muddle over some of the words – then I could go back and help mother. She needs me desperately, but of course she wouldn't let me help her and ignore my letter-writing. Poor dear." Her head was bent over the letter so he permitted himself a grin at her last speech. He could easily imagine Éowyn's real reason for sending her daughter to write a letter, and he secretly resolved to keep Elwyna busy for as long as possible.
"What words have you muddled?" he asked her.
"'Silk' and 'midnight blue.'" She answered promptly, and he spelled the words for her. She wrote silently for a few minutes, seemingly totally absorbed. But when he stood and tried to peek at the letter she covered it with her arms without even looking up. "I thought I told you this was private." She said crossly.
He grimaced and sat back down, "I thought I'd make sure you weren't having any more trouble," he said lamely.
"If I need help I'll be sure to ask for it." She had a wonderful sarcastic tone when she said that. It made him go into silent spasms of laughter. A few minutes later she asked, "How do you spell 'tent?'" He complied. Then: "How do you spell 'camp fire?'" He answered, wondering what this was about. "How do you spell 'konkshreewwwwww burububub?'" this time she made a fairly good impression of a loud snore.
"What?" he asked in alarm. "What are you writing about?"
She smiled at him sweetly, "I'm writing about when Daddy took me camping with him."
The elf couldn't hold back his laughter that time. It rang out clear as a bell. If only poor Faramir could hear his daughter's imitation of his snores...
"Well you certainly seem happy!" Éowyn's voice broke in. He saw that she had come to the door with her poultice and a roll of bandages. With subtle hand-motions he showed her that he was laughing at Elwyna, and she nodded in understanding. "Thank you," she said gratefully. He nodded.
"Elwyna, would you like to help me put the poultice on Greyfell?" she asked. The little girl sprang from her seat, the "private correspondence" forgotten in her excitement. She waved a goodbye as she and her mother made their way to the stables.
He stood watching until Elwyna skipped around a corner and then curiosity got the best of him. He picked up the letter. His laugh filled the air once again when he saw that the paper was covered with meaningless scribbles.
Lying on the beach he smiled again as he remembered, not noticing that a wave had washed his name from the sand.
The silence was complete. He heard nothing but the waves. It was a silence strangely absent of the sounds of little creatures scurrying over the broken shells and birds humming sleepily to one another. Even the breeze made no sound as it swept over the damp, hard-packed sand.
He half believed that he wasn't standing there. The sea and wind certainly took no notice of him. He lifted his foot and looked at the sand underneath. He had left no imprints. A familiar ache was starting up deep in his soul, and he felt a desperate need to prove to himself that he existed.
Squatting he drew his long finger through the wet sand. He left marks this time. He sat back on his heels to survey his handiwork. The sight of his name written in curving script assuaged his rising panic. He still was.
He gave a sigh of relief and lay back looking at the stars. They had changed over time. He could no longer look at them and read the stories of old. He knew they must tell new stories of this new world, but he had never learned the art of interpreting their meaning.
Some nights he would make up stories of his own. He'd imagine himself up there, fighting and winning battles, and people on the earth looking up and admiring him. But tonight that stars held no charm for him. Writing his name had made him remember something – a little golden head bent studiously over a bit of parchment, a smooth white forehead scrunched in concentration, a rosebud mouth pursed thoughtfully.
Éowyn had been preparing a poultice for an abscess on a broodmare's leg, and Elwyna had been too much under foot. The little girl followed her mother's every step doggedly until at last Éowyn had set the little girl at a table outside with pen and parchment and instructions to write a letter to her uncle Éomer.
She was sitting there, frowning at her paper when the elf glided onto the terrace. She glanced up and waved him over distractedly.
"I must get this letter off," she said, sticking out her little chin. When he stepped closer to see it she crossed her chubby arms over the letter and frowned, "Please," she said primly, "This is a private correspondence." He nodded solemnly and sat nearby on a low wall. Clearing his throat he asked, "How may I be of assistance to her ladyship?"
She sighed as she lay her plumy pen across the paper. "I have so many things to do just now. I'm afraid I've neglected my dear Uncle most dreadfully. I was just writing to him of the new gown I'm having made." She turned back to her writing.
His eyes were sparkling with fun, but he forced himself to keep a sober face. He wouldn't offend the precocious tot's dignity. "I'm sure Éomer will be pleased to hear from his favorite niece," he said, vying for her favor.
The prim little miss saw through his attempt and sniffed, "I'm his only niece."
"That's true." He admitted, determined to treat her like an adult if he could do so without laughing.
Again she gave a dramatic sigh, "If I could just scribble this off quickly – I'm muddle over some of the words – then I could go back and help mother. She needs me desperately, but of course she wouldn't let me help her and ignore my letter-writing. Poor dear." Her head was bent over the letter so he permitted himself a grin at her last speech. He could easily imagine Éowyn's real reason for sending her daughter to write a letter, and he secretly resolved to keep Elwyna busy for as long as possible.
"What words have you muddled?" he asked her.
"'Silk' and 'midnight blue.'" She answered promptly, and he spelled the words for her. She wrote silently for a few minutes, seemingly totally absorbed. But when he stood and tried to peek at the letter she covered it with her arms without even looking up. "I thought I told you this was private." She said crossly.
He grimaced and sat back down, "I thought I'd make sure you weren't having any more trouble," he said lamely.
"If I need help I'll be sure to ask for it." She had a wonderful sarcastic tone when she said that. It made him go into silent spasms of laughter. A few minutes later she asked, "How do you spell 'tent?'" He complied. Then: "How do you spell 'camp fire?'" He answered, wondering what this was about. "How do you spell 'konkshreewwwwww burububub?'" this time she made a fairly good impression of a loud snore.
"What?" he asked in alarm. "What are you writing about?"
She smiled at him sweetly, "I'm writing about when Daddy took me camping with him."
The elf couldn't hold back his laughter that time. It rang out clear as a bell. If only poor Faramir could hear his daughter's imitation of his snores...
"Well you certainly seem happy!" Éowyn's voice broke in. He saw that she had come to the door with her poultice and a roll of bandages. With subtle hand-motions he showed her that he was laughing at Elwyna, and she nodded in understanding. "Thank you," she said gratefully. He nodded.
"Elwyna, would you like to help me put the poultice on Greyfell?" she asked. The little girl sprang from her seat, the "private correspondence" forgotten in her excitement. She waved a goodbye as she and her mother made their way to the stables.
He stood watching until Elwyna skipped around a corner and then curiosity got the best of him. He picked up the letter. His laugh filled the air once again when he saw that the paper was covered with meaningless scribbles.
Lying on the beach he smiled again as he remembered, not noticing that a wave had washed his name from the sand.